Chapter Text
“There are four lunchboxes in the fridge—one is for lunch, another for dinner, and the last two are extra snacks in case you don’t like lunch or dinner,” Stone muttered, loud enough for Ivo to hear, as he counted his annoying preparations on his fingers.
“Stone, you don’t—”
“By the way, I left two thermoses of coffee—it’s more than you need, but I know very well that you like to drink two cups of coffee when you’re angry. And you must have so much to do tomorrow,” the agent continued chattering. Ivo hated it when this little pest didn’t pay attention to what he was saying.
"Stone."
"Yes, sir." Stone finally fell silent, much to Ivo’s relief.
Ivo had to admit, Stone got on his nerves in the days leading up to his time off; his excessive concern would have been admirable if Ivo weren’t older than the agent.
Taking a few steps forward, Ivo continued, his voice a little louder, in case the agent tried to interrupt him again.
"I’m a grown man, remember? Go enjoy your vacation before I change my mind and leave you without one for a whole year."
Stone nodded, a grumble escaping his lips as he grabbed his bag. It was kind of charming how he looked when he was upset; Ivo concluded he should let him sulk more often. Just for fun, obviously. The agent waved, saying goodbye first to Ivo and then to Lucky.
...
When one of his “babies” came up beside him, Ivo didn’t recognize it—he hadn’t even seen it before Stone said its name. Lucky, as the agent nicknamed it, is one of his badniks that, for reasons unknown so far, has had its programming altered. Ivo has already tried to fix it, but so far without conclusive results for this glitch in its programming.
Well, he can deal with Lucky another time.
★
The sun streaming through the windows and hitting his face made him grumble. Ivo didn’t want to get up; a little voice in his chest insisted that this would be a terrible day—it was an unbearable feeling that always tormented him on Sundays.
About four minutes later, he gets out of bed, pushing laziness aside as he stretches his arms. He doesn’t have time to complain. He doesn’t have much to do today, aside from finishing a few reports—unfortunately, all from G.U.N.
After brushing his teeth, he headed to the lab; there was no point in changing clothes—there was no one around to laugh at his pajamas. Stepping into the makeshift kitchen, Ivo was greeted by a beep as he grabbed one of the thermoses. Filling a mug, he took a sip of cola. It would have been better if Stone had made it fresh, but it tasted just as good after spending the night in the cupboard.
“If you’re looking for Stone, too bad—he’s not coming in today.” Another beep echoed. “It’s his day off—what can I do?”
Ivo walked right past the drone toward the consoles; he wasn’t in the mood to explain to his little one what a day off was. Maybe he already knew, since he didn’t make a peep again. Scrolling through some files, he noticed that some were already finished—some that Ivo was sure he’d never touched before.
Has Stone been filling out his reports without his permission? It wasn’t all bad—he doesn’t like organizing those files, but he also didn’t like it when the agent messed with his stuff without even asking first.
Ivo would have to talk to him tomorrow, explain that he couldn’t do something that had been assigned to Ivo just because he thought Ivo was too overwhelmed. Overwhelmed… He doesn’t like that word; it had started to grate on him after the agent used it so many times to convince him to get some rest.
With a grumble, he opened one of the files labeled “GX-12 Prototype”—the motorcycle he’d had to overhaul because Walters didn’t believe it was ready for field testing. Well, now it was, but the old man still wanted him to personally observe and analyze the field tests. What a load of nonsense.
The motorcycle is in great shape; Ivo has more important things to do than analyze his design in action. His fingers glided quickly over the text, answering some of the questions in the file, the most obvious one being about its risks.
He’d probably spent half an hour on that. The mummy in a suit and his countless questions. For a moment, his fingers stopped typing, his brow furrowing slightly. Maybe he should have Stone test the motorcycle; even though he was practically a former field agent, Walters still liked to use him on certain missions.
It would be practical to send the agent—his field agent record showed numerous armed missions, chases, infiltrations, and more. It would be a piece of cake for him. There was a chance he might end up getting hurt, yes, but it probably wouldn’t be serious. He was an Ivo Robotnik prototype; there was no way he could fail. Even as a prototype.
But prototypes always have a chance of failing. He took another sip of coffee. He shouldn’t be bothered by the idea—it’s excellent. He wouldn’t have to deal with those incompetent bureaucrats, plus he’d save an entire afternoon. Stone would do it for him, filling out that endless paperwork.
Ivo also had to consider the other side of things: if the prototype failed—despite the extremely low odds—Stone might end up breaking an arm or a leg. And Ivo definitely didn’t want his sycophant to get hurt—not that much, anyway.
He wasn’t worried, but without Stone for a few days because of a broken bone, the lab would be a mess. Ivo wasn’t the best at keeping things organized.
His eyes drifted to the drone, which tilted its shell to the side, mirroring his uncertainty.
“You’re right, I don’t need to think about that right now. The tests are in two weeks.”
Leaning back in his chair, his gaze drifted to the clock on the wall. 12:32 p.m. Time was passing far too slowly, and that was irritating; the sooner the day ended, the better. Had healready mentioned that he hated Sundays?
“Please, sir, don’t skip meals. You need to eat well, especially when I’m not around to keep an eye on what you’re eating...”
Ivo really had to talk to Stone about his overprotectiveness.
With an exasperated sigh, he stood up from his chair with a little hop before heading to the kitchen. He found the four lunchboxes, just as the agent had mentioned the day before. He picked up the one labeled “lunch” on the lid and opened it: rice, vegetables, and roast meat.
What could be more home-cooked and heartfelt than that? Maybe only Stone himself. It looked like the lunch a mother would pack for her beloved son’s first day of school. Just thinking about that melodramatic scene made his stomach churn.
He placed the mixture on a plate before putting it in the microwave for two minutes. In the meantime, he stood by the counter, tapping his foot impatiently on the floor. Ivo had never been good at waiting.
As soon as the microwave beeped, Ivo grabbed the plate; the hot steam hit his face while the aroma of the rice filled his nose. Technically, he should have gotten used to it by now, but he hadn’t.
No matter how much time passed, Ivo simply couldn’t get used to Steno cooking for him every Saturday. He could say it was because on Sundays he had to eat alone, whereas on other days he ate with the agent.
But that was nonsense, since he’d always eaten alone before Stone came along. So there had to be another reason—one he didn’t know yet.
...
After lunch, Ivo sat in front of the TV, a fresh mug of coffee in his hand. He’d been watching a Mexican romantic soap opera for half an hour—one of his favorite pastimes. This was a new series; he’d started watching it a month ago and hadn’t finished it yet because it was relatively longer than any other soap opera he’d seen so far.
Camila, the protagonist, was suspicious of her fiancé, Sebastián, who had started acting strangely toward her. And now she was confronting him, saying how he doesn’t kiss her like he used to, how he’s hardly ever home, and then, with a dramatic pause… she accuses him of cheating on her with her sister, Catalina.
It’s a truly theatrical scene, and Ivo’s eyes are fixed on the TV as he strokes Lucky’s shell with his free hand. Lucky had curled up on his lap and insisted on staying there, possibly because he doesn’t have Stone to follow around like a baby duck follows its mother.
“That reminds me of Stone…” His hands stopped stroking the drone. “I mean, I’m sure that reckless little rascal is hiding something from me.”
A small beep echoed, and at the same time, Ivo moved his chair closer to the console. He opened the folder containing all his important files.
“Did you know I hate secrets?”
Ivo’s eyes scanned the various files, looking for any suspicious one bearing his agent’s name, and it didn’t take long to find one. His eyes fell on a particularly old file, dated four years ago.
Titled “Transfer File—Agent Aban Stone.” Ivo remembered that file; at the time, Walters had insisted that he read up on his new assistant. Obviously, that didn’t happen—Ivo didn’t believe Stone would last much longer than his previous assistants, all of whom usually quit within a month.
Well, now he had a reason to read the file, didn’t he? Opening the file, he found exactly what he expected on the first few pages.
Name, age, academic background, and all the other uninteresting information a dossier might contain. Aside from the idea itself, Ivo was surprisingly taken aback by his agent’s age—42—not bad for someone who looked 27.
Finally, Ivo found something interesting in the file… Too bad it was redacted. Who sends a redacted dossier? They probably didn’t realize that part was in the file and just sent it anyway.
Walters urgently needs to take some medicine for his terrible memory.
For about forty minutes, Ivo kept trying to unlock the file, to no avail. For someone with such a terrible memory, the old man was really determined to hide whatever it was from people.
“Ah, you miserable old man…”
If he couldn’t do it the usual way, then he’d do it the old-fashioned way. Ivo was going to have a little chat with his senile boss.